


Shirley Bassey B-Side, 1962

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Category: Pennyworth (TV 2019)
Genre: Banter, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon-typical language, Episode 5, Hallucinations, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Missing Scene, Mutual Masturbation, Outdoor Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scots Dialect, Semi-Public Sex, Survivor Guilt, Swearing, War, Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 19:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: Episode 5 – Alfie’s starting to come back to himself. Spanish is there to talk about old times.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Deon "Bazza" Bashford & Wallace "Dave Boy" MacDougal, Alfred Pennyworth/"Spanish"
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	Shirley Bassey B-Side, 1962

_Da-da-da, dee-da-dum…_

He’s humming. He hasn’t heard his own voice in a long old while, that’s for certain. Not like this. He feels it vibrate in his chest, enjoys the tinny buzz along his sinuses, against his teeth.

Just something to pass the time.

_Da-da-deee, dum, dum…_

He’s finding the taste of the toothpaste oddly pleasant. Realised only yesterday how much he missed being clean. Mum smiled when he said he was going to have a bath. He ran it very hot, sat in it for a long time, feeling the sting of the water work its way into him, let cool a little, then scrubbed properly, everywhere.

_Da-da-da, dee-da-dum…_

He likes doing things where he doesn’t have to think. Where he can just do them, and it works, and at the end, you’ve got something you can be proud of. Like that time–

Like that time in–

That bridge in–

He digs his heels in, won’t think of it.

_DA-DA-DEEE, DUM, DUM…_

He’s been enjoying the running. Finally. The point really, he supposes. Won’t tell Mister Ripper. Not yet. It’s the burn in his muscles and the way he gets just a bit faster each time. Simple. Something to be proud of, finally.

Not got a lot, if he looks at it from one angle – _he tilts his head, foamy handle clenched between his teeth, frowning into the mirror_ – to be proud of. Not solid things. Not stuff you can touch, like. On the other hand – _he tilts his head the other way, lips tight, cheeks puffed out, the frown looking ludicrous now_ – lots of people alive now wouldn’t be, arguably, if it hadn’t been for him. This voice comes at him sideways and nasal, dead-pale round cheeks like Dave Boy, and just as he’s about to dismiss it just for that, it slows into Bazza’s measured tones, calm, dark eyes looking at him like _cool it, Alfie_.

His name’s almost a caress in that voice: Al-fie, made smaller even as it’s lengthened. Only one other person’s ever said his name like that, all the letters present and correct, like they want to be in her mouth, spend as much time as possible there.

But we’re not thinking about that, are we? Today’s a good day. Why spoil it, eh?

He takes out the toothbrush, spits, glares at himself in the mirror, hands propped on the basin. “Silly fucking bastard.”

He rinses, wipes his face, heads for bed, searching for that small thread of contentment, finding it and gripping it, humming again as he shuts the door, takes his dressing gown off, hangs it on the hook. He shucks his slippers under the bed, climbs in. Clean sheets at last. Such a small thing for such a big grin on mum’s face.

_Da-da-da, dee-da-dum, da-da-deee, dum, dum…_

He reaches to the light, switches it off and settles back in the dimness. It’s nice to be tired. Nice to be proper, in-your-bones tired. Like: feeling yourself in your own body, where it begins and ends. That sort of thing. Maybe sleeping and waking are going to start drawing apart a bit, settling into their own spaces again.

“Well now, that’s up to you, ain’t it, Alfie?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Spanish…”

“What? No room for me now Ol’ Ripper’s got you doing physical jerks?”

He pinches the skin just above his nose. _You’ll get lines there_, mum says, and hasn’t he watched them turn up just there on her and dad?

“Always room for you, Spanish. Not like you’re bloody going anywhere, are ya?”

“You sound different tonight, Alfie!”

“Just tired is all, mate.”

“Not what I mean. There’s some life in you.”

“Is there?” He’s surprised to find he’s curious, opens his eyes to peer at him.

“Yeah. Easier to spot these things, in this condition.”

“I imagine so.”

“Yeah.”

A silence settles over the bedroom, but Spanish shows no signs of moving on. As it were.

“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, mate, but I was quite fancying some kip about now.”

“Oh. Sure. Yeah. Sorry.”

“No problem.” He closes his eyes again, wriggles a little, scrunches himself into the mattress a touch deeper.

“What was it you was singing?”

“Eh?” He’s still fucking here, after all.

“Earlier?”

“I weren’t singing, Spanish, don’t get creative.”

“Creative’s what I do best.”

“Yeah…”

“Remember Rangoon?”

“Mate, I have whole days, sometimes whole weeks, when I don’t remember Rangoon. Those are good weeks.”

He opens his eyes. Spanish has twisted around on the end of the bed and is grinning over his shoulder at him, god-damn near twinkling. He grins back, then feels sad again, abruptly.

Spanish’s face follows his down. “What’s wrong?”

“You, mate. We should be having this talk for real. Down the pub or sunnink. You know?”

“Yeah, well, close as it’s gonna get, mate. And really, to all intents and purposes, this is pretty real.”

“I suppose so.” He forces himself to hold his gaze, keep his expression as neutral as possible.

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Well, it is, pretty much.”

“Oh.”

_Hey! Sit down, Spanish!_ Over and done so quickly. And then the long, long, stinking march, learning what weight was, what that all means, staring into dead eyes too many times. And still worth it. Still the right thing. Still fucking worth it.

“Not your fault, Alfie.”

“I guess not, Spanish.” He sniffs, blinks rapidly, staring at the ceiling, lips pinched downwards. He clears his throat and looks down the bed at him again. “Listen– Hm.”

“What?”

“Well, mate, ain’t there no way to change how you look?”

“Oh. This?” He points at his left temple.

“And the other one, mate.”

His hand reaches up to, but doesn’t quite touch the wreck of the right-hand side. “It’s how you keep thinking of me, so that’s on you, that is.”

“Oh. Fair enough.”

Spanish’s eyes roll away to the side, considering. “Maybe…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, maybe you need to, you know, imagine me washing it away or sumfin. You know? Can’t just vanish this away now, can I? S’not logical.”

He’s blinking slowly, considering Mister Ripper again, thinks: morticians do that. They neaten things up, don’t they? Needle and thread, putty, bit of paint…

First they wash them though, don’t they?

“Sorry, Spanish. I’ve left you dirty all this time.”

“No bother, Alfie – you had other things on your mind.”

“Right, so, okay, how about you take a wash, Spanish?”

“Give us a lend of your soap, then!”

Spanish twists further towards him, holds a hand out, smirking and he can’t help but smirk back, feeling one corner of his mouth quirk up as he takes the imaginary soap off the bedside table and hands it over.

For a startling second it’s like there’s weight to drop, a whisper of skin under his fingertips and all, and then he’s pulling his hand away, sharpish, and Spanish is waving a bar of soap at him. “Ta very much!”

Where he’s going to get the water from he’s no idea, but it seems Spanish has that covered, bending down and _splashing_, as though there’s a river beyond the foot of his bed like there was when he was five, for fishing in and jumping over and all that.

“Don’t forget the back of your neck, now,” he tells him, feeling amusement ripple through him for the first time in– in–

Let’s not think about that, eh?

Spanish helps, chuckling: “Behind my lugs and all, yeah?”

“Aye. And mind you get right under them fingernails.” He leans back, imagining the water running muddy and bloody then clear, remembering Dave Boy’s delight at a slang word that was the same either side of the border, and Bazza looking between them, all creased, saying, slow and contemptuous, accent thicker back then: _What you fools talkin’ at now, eh? Lugs?!_

“Wotcha reckon, Alfie?”

He peers up and does a scan. “Very nice.” He’s even tugged that horrible flap of skin over and you can hardly tell. Not in this light. “You could go see the Queen like that.”

“You’d know.”

“Yeah. Weird, that whole thing. Very weird.”

“How come?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d’ve said she was flirting wi’ me…”

“Wiv _you?!_”

“Yeah. Any other bird, I’d– _What?!_”

Spanish sniggers himself to a halt, wipes under his nose with the back of his hand. “No offence, mate, but you’re fuck-all good at spotting when someone wants you!”

“Not true.”

“Is so.”

“Rubbish!”

“Nah…” And Spanish’s voice is very soft now, while his eyes sparkle with challenge.

He’s thinking about–

He’s thinking about that–

That place where–

Where they stopped. That–

Near Mandalay. Yes. Two days out still and the forced march to the city was never-bloody-ending, well over a week out of fucking Rangoon, and having to go east out of their way and everyone in a terrible mood. When they stopped. Just stopped. Dave Boy swaying on his feet, having just dumped his pack, saying: _Fuck all you fuckers, Ah’m fucked, and yiz kin fuck off wi’oot me for aw Ah fuckin’ care but ah’m stoppin’ here, thank you very fuckin’ much, ya cunts_.

Bazza had thrown a canteen at his head and said _I can hear water. Go fill this, then, ya lazy bastard, then we’ll talk about stoppin’_.

“Crashing back through the undergrowth yelling ‘Ah’ve foond a fuckin’ waterfall, ye cunts’ like stealth was for any fucker but him.”

Spanish is curled up at the foot of the mattress, sniggering. “’e’s soaking fucking wet, singing some fucking song about heather and Bazza goes…”

“‘Where’s my fuckin’ canteen, then? Give it to the bacoos, did ya?’” they chorus.

It’s not funny, but it is, because getting Bazza to express anything hotter than mild exasperation is a skill few possess, but Dave Boy’s the master of it.

“Clothes plastered to his skin, shouting ‘Hallelujah, ya howlin’ wee bawbags! Ah’m away tae get. Fuckin’. _Clean_.’”

And, just like that, Bazza had picked up Dave Boy’s pack, slung it at him, pushed him over, grabbed his own, and raced for the water.

“‘Help uz up,’ he goes…”

“And we go: ‘nah’ and head off ourselves.”

They’d gone back and picked him up after. Course they had. Just made sure they’d disappeared out of sight first…

“Christ, that was nice,” he sighs, seeing the lagoon ahead of him in memory.

“Do they understand?”

“Eh?” He looks at Spanish, curled on top of the sheets, leaning on one hand.

“Them wot never went. What _clean_ means?”

“Don’t reckon they do, Spanish, no.”

“You do, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He’s feeling warm, now. Really warm under that long-gone sun, that rocking water catching them, caressing. The thunder of the fall itself pummelling his neck and shoulders. _You _have_ to try this, mate. Just stand there. Now lean forward… Magic, yeah?!_

Soaped and rinsed and massaged. Clean. Clean, clean, clean; sand between his toes, the occasional fish stroking by.

Dave Boy and Bazza wandering away to make a campfire. _Small one!_

_Yeah, we know, Alfie, fuck’s sake, man!_

“Just you and me, and you grabbed my hand, pulled me to the other side of that sheet of water.”

“Then standing close so you could hear me.”

“Didn’t need to.”

“You needed _something_. I swear – how many hints does a man need?”

“Exactly that many, turns out.”

“Yeah.”

The water so clear, hiding nothing. Attention rising, your hand, all slippery still in mine, warm, warmer, reflecting my heat. Or the other way around.

“Were you scared?”

“Of what?”

Spanish shrugs. “Dunno. What they’d say?”

“What: Dave Boy and Bazza? When Dave Boy’d get it out not two feet away while we was all resting and just start humping his hand?!”

“The class of him. Fuckin’ Jock perv.” Spanish is twinkling again. Old joke. Old and thin.

“He’d always turn his back, though. Very respectful, I always thought.”

“Yeah, very gentlemanly.”

“Not like you, then.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Exactly that. Just that look, the way… yeah…”

Slow, warm, intent, licking his lips, green eyes bright and direct, stepping way too close, in the shade of the rock, the isinglass of the fall protecting them.

“You were nervous though.”

“Who kissed who, Spanish?”

“You.”

“What was that? Didn’t quite hear…”

“You, ya prick. You kissed me. And then I kissed you back.”

“Yes, you did,” he breathes. “With fucking interest.”

If he could fall into him again right here and now, he would. So he does the next best thing and closes his eyes, summons it all back – the scent of the water, the sun-bleached rock, the man in his arms, close and slippery, tongue darting, beckoning his own. And as soon as that barrier’s broken, they’re hauling each other close, hands in each other’s hair, Spanish biting a little, and he’s moaning, knows he is, even though he can’t hear it–

“Got you back, though…” He opens his eyes, gazes lazily at him, hooded.

“Grabbing my arse!”

“Damn fine arse, mate, course I grabbed it.”

“Couldn’t get enough.”

“No.”

Grinding on each other then, hard as anything. Hard and warm and… and he wants to press the man’s back into something, really push hard against him, feel the friction and the slipperiness combined, dear _fucking_ Christ. But it’s all rock–

“– jagged as fuck, so what am I supposed to do?”

“Slip your hand down.”

“You beat me to it.”

“Yeah, couldn’t wait any longer.”

Spanish sounds breathless, and ain’t _that_ a joke?

“I’m that irresistible mate,” he tells him.

“Slip your hand down.” In the dimness, Spanish’s eyes are glittering.

“That an order?” He feels _cheeky_ bloom over his expression like a gift. “Coz you ain’t–”

“Slip your hand down. You’re hard now, aintcha?”

God, he is. He pulses, hot and welcoming in his grip.

“That’s right. Now, nice and slow, start to stroke it.”

“_Fuck_, Spanish!”

“I held you just like that, you cursin’ and moanin’ at me; I swear you’d never had a hand so big and hard on you weren’t your own.”

He grits his teeth, takes another stroke.

“I put my other hand into your hair and started stroking down there, felt the heat of you kick up a notch.”

“Mmh…”

“Thought I’d have to wait my turn, you being so shy and all.”

“Fuck you, I pulled you closer, got my hand around you, started stroking too.”

“Like it was a fucking competition.”

“It… wasn’t…?” His breath’s coming short now, his mind full of Spanish, and kind, clear water, and Burmese heat, pulling pyjama bottoms and sheets free, seeing greed gleam in Spanish’s eyes as he moans into his stroke, gripping a little harder now.

“God, Alfie, it was _so good!_”

“Do it.”

“What?”

“Touch yourself too.”

“I can’t!”

“You can if I say you can. If you can wash your fucking face, you can wank your fucking cock.”

Spanish moans a little for this, but follows orders all the same, tugging himself free of his fatigues and stroking hard and fast, looking to catch up.

The only sound for the moment is their heavy breathing, the occasional creak of the bed, the rustle of the sheets.

“Who… who came, c-came ff-irst, Spanish?”

“Me. Me! I was telling you. Telling you… Oh _fuck!_”

“Telling me what you’d… do with me when we… we next got llleave. Telling me. _Fuck!_ Jesus, I’m close!”

“Telling you I’d suck you so hard you’d be weak for days.”

“Telling me you’d… _Christ_, fuck me until I was… _raw_, still, still begging for more, harder, _more_.”

“Yes!”

“You gonna… gonna come for me, Spanish?”

“Yes! _Yes!_ You?!”

“Yes, I– Ah, _Christ!_”

He fumbles his pyjama top up high, rams the ball of his other thumb into his mouth for a gag, manages to swallow the roar that’s thundering up his throat; groans, muffled and biting, into his hand as he comes, almost as hard as he had then, kissing Spanish, helplessly moaning into his mouth, feeling his knees go and Spanish grab him around the waist so that they stood there, spray glazing their skin, leaning against each other as their breathing got back to normal.

_Cleaning up was easier under a waterfall_, he can’t help thinking, rueful smile soft on his mouth as he floats down, even while one hand’s busy with his hankie.

“You gonna sleep now, Alfie?”

“You know what? I think I just might, Spanish,” he says, words blurring on a yawn, trying to keep his eyes open long enough to say goodbye.

Before he goes, he makes sure to tell him: “They wouldn’t’ve begrudged us, those two. Not them.”

“I know.”

Spanish starts to hum, and he just about recognises it for what he was humming himself before…

_Da-da-da, dee-da-dum, da-da-deee, dum, dum…_

_When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high…_

And then he’s out, like a light.

**Author's Note:**

> Shirley Bassey recorded her cover of _[You’ll Never Walk Alone](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/You%27ll_Never_Walk_Alone)_ in 1962. However, that doesn’t really matter as this is an AU anyway, and who even knows if Carousel was even written?! I _was_ going to have him humming _My Way_ (regrets… I’ve had a few…), then changed my mind.
> 
> A bacoo is a [leprechaun/ boggart kind of thing from Guyana](https://exemplore.com/paranormal/Jumbies-of-Guyana). If I’ve got Bazza’s origin wrong, please correct me and I’ll put a different kind of bogle in there.
> 
> In Scots dialect, howlin = smelly, and bawbag = testicles


End file.
